Her Name Was Emmanuelle
by Victoire Javert
Summary: Emmanuelle is the daughter of Javert, the original overprotective dad. he doesn't let her do anything, or meet ANYBODY-but what about her long-lost golden-haired twin brother or the drunk man that she's fallen in love with? ... "Papa, who was that lady?" "Her name was Emmanuelle, and I loved her." "Do you miss her?" "More than anything."
1. Chapter 1

Dear Reader: It has come of notice to us that we must write down and keep history of a turn of events in the past. It is our civil and familial duty to do such a thing-that is, to write down our family history. It is full of twists, turns, and, above all, an intertwined myriad of love stories and a fight for the freedom of the people.

Mama and Papa always told us these stories about a police inspector, a convict, and a barricade. Our uncle also told us stories of Les Amis de l'ABC, a revolutionary group. Many of the stories refuse to be forgotten even after many years of being told and even after so many years after the events of which you will be told.

It is with our solemn duty that we now tell the story of a man named Inspector Javert, an ex-convict named Jean Valjean, an alcoholic cynic named Grantaire, a golden-haired and passionate man named Enjolras, and a dangerously intelligent woman named Emmanuelle.

Vive le France,

Henriette Grantaire-Pontmercy, Jean Grantaire, and Etienne Grantaire

_**December 31, 1821…..Paris, France**_

_Dear Etienne,_

_ It is probably a strange thing to hear from me after so many years. After all it has been about nine years since we last shared moments alone, then, you suddenly left. I've never stopped thinking of you, even when you left me. I have not made bold of myself to write to you until now, but I have realized that I must, for, mon vieil amour, I am dying._

_ I am ill and dying, and, since I have no living blood family and you are her father, that is why I now send her to you. By the time that you are reading this, I will be in the grave in the Petit-Picpus convent. Emmanuelle is a well-behaved child. You should not have any trouble with her. I raised her as I thought that you would approve of, Etienne. She is your daughter, after all. _

_ Look at her, for, in her young face, you will see a reflection of a feminine version of your own self. She has inherited your grey eyes and thick, long, dark lashes. She also has a round, heart-shaped face like your own. But, there very, very little of me, you will notice. She has my brown hair. That is all. Oh, Etienne, she is just a darling and a sweetheart. _

_ Emmanuelle loves you already. I have told her many stories of you, and she already has decided that she loves you. Please, love her back and give her a home. She needs it. If she is sent to an orphanage, she could end up with somebody who will mistreat her horribly. I trust you! You are the only person, my dear Etienne, that I could ever trust with her._

_ She also has a twin brother that was born. His name is Julien, and he looks mostly like me. I was forced into a marriage after the birth, and Emmanuelle was rejected by my husband. I consider her a Javert, no child of my wedded husband. He is staying with my husband, but, for fear of what would happen to dear Emmanuelle, I send her now to you so that she will be raised right. Our son….our daughter….._

_ I love you and her. Please, when she is old enough to understand, tell her of me._

_I Send Thee My Love,_

_Henriette_

Etienne shakily let his hands drop to his side as he clenched the letter hard, crumpling the fine parchment in his leather-gloved hand. He had a daughter who looked just like him. He had a son that looked like his dear Henriette. She was dead by now. It was far too much to take in in a day, let alone a few moments.

He could not forget his brief, but passionate, love affair-or absolution, as he thought of it-with Henriette Du Bois, as she was then known as. Her curly, long, brown locks strayed down her back like a sheer curtain of fine silk. Henriette's crystal-blue eyes were bright and sharp as they were beautiful. Though she possessed much facial beauty, what Javert loved most was her hands. It was strange, but the way that her long fingers grabbed at his shirt when they…did that, it really fascinated him. Short-lived indeed had their love been. Oh, she had been the daughter of some bourgeois-two-a-penny mother and some baron for a father. He'd met her on a route in Toulon one day, and had instantly fallen in love with her. They'd gotten so to the point where they were ready to get married, but, alas, high-horsed Monsieur l'Baron refused to allow the marriage. The cause? She had become pregnant. An arranged marriage was forced between Mademoiselle Henriette and some heir to a duchal fortune, and it was made to be assumed in society that the children were Henriette's and the heir to a duke. Nobody was to know that it had indeed been Javert, a young prison guard at the Toulon galleys, that had impregnated the bright young lady who seemed miserable at the marriage. After her marriage, Javert had been reassigned to the city of Montreuil, all the way on the other side of France. Javert had always assumed that the reassignment was because of Henriette's bastard child-then, he did not know that there were twins-and had always resented the Baron Du Bois. For eight peaceful years, he had lived in Montreuil until the whole affair thing-to be honest, Javert didn't want to get into it-with an ex-convict-turned-small-town-mayor named Jean Valjean. He had been reassigned to Paris-do you notice a running theme?-and, now, he had a little girl of around eight years of age on his doorstep, looking up at him with expectant grey eyes.

"Ah….who….who is your mother, child?" Javert stammered, still desperately hoping that his was some sick, twisted, dream of his. A slap in the face would be all it would take to get back to reality….fortunately (or unfortunately), the cold chill of the swirling snow at his feet reaffirmed that this, indeed, was not a make-believe thing of the mind.

"I call her mama. Her name is….Henriette, I think. That's what Papa told me," the trembling child replied. "She's dead."

Javert felt like his heart dropped to his feet, and he had to swallow with difficulty to get rid of the lump in his throat. "I….I don't know what to say."

Emmanuelle frowned. "Papa sent me here after he read that letter. Papa doesn't like me. He only likes 'Lien. He never paid any attention to me."

Emmanuelle shivered again. "It's cold." Javert noticed that this, indeed, was true, and he ushered his newfound daughter into his modest home.

The young girl sat primly onto the blue settee, folding her hands in her lap and swinging her legs over the side. Javert swallowed again, for he saw a reflection of Henriette's sensibility in Emmanuelle's posture. He took woolen blanket that he had made himself and draped it over her shoulders. Javert took a seat next to her, and the settee creaked under his weight.

"Emmanuelle, do you understand that that man was not your father?" Javert asked tentatively. It was a sore subject that he didn't want to press too much upon. After all, you don't push on a bruise.

"Yes," Emmanuelle replied, sticking her tongue out. "Mama always told me and 'Lien that we had a different papa who was a lot nicer and cared more about us than he did. She called him….my Etienne, or something like that. Mama's husband told me that he was sending me to my real papa. He called my real papa a piece of _merde_."

"Emmanuelle!" Javert shrieked upon hearing the words that came to his daughter's prefect rosebud lips. "We don't say that word, do you understand? It's a curse word, and curse words are very bad."

"Yes, sir," Emmanuelle answered like it was a familiar phrase for her. "Please don't hit me like Papa used to when I was bad." Javert cringed at the thought of beating this little angel. In the letter, Henriette had said that Emmanuelle was an angel who never disobeyed. What wickedness could she have committed to deserve a beating?

"He….he beat you?" Javert asked shakily.

Emmanuelle frowned again. "Yes. He would come home all tipsy after a night out, and he would beat Mama. If he was really mad, he would beat me. He never beat 'Lien. 'Lien was his favorite."

Javert's grip on the arm of the settee tightened. How dare that bastard, that son of a bitch, beat Henriette and sweet Emmanuelle, an innocent child? At that moment, Javert wanted nothing more than to be able to go and strangle that man for what he had done. If he knew where Henriette's husband resided with 'Lien-which could be interpreted as a mispronunciation of Julien, her brother's name-he would arrest the man or alert the authorities of the events that had taken place.

"Well, um….I really don't know what to say, but," Javert stammered, "how would you feel about staying here for….a while?"

"I think I would like it, sir," Emmanuelle replied.

"All I would ever ask of you would be to perform some chores and behave like a young lady," Javert continued.

"Oh, you won't beat me, will you?" Emmanuelle interrogated, frightened. "I hated it when I got bruised. Mama always had to put her special makeup on my bruises so the guests wouldn't see them. If the guest saw them, Papa got mad. The one time she forgot to put her makeup on them and a guest saw the bruises, we never saw that guest again. Nobody did." So the man was not only a child and wife abuser, he was a murderer?

"No!" Javert started. "I mean, no, my child, I would never dream of it."

"Oh," Emmanuelle smiled, her face softening and revealing a row of straight white teeth. "That's nice. Will you be like a papa to me now?"

Javert did not hesitate before confirming, "Yes, Emmanuelle. This is true; I'll be father _and_ mother to you."

Emmanuelle's pretty smile grew impossibly wider as she snuggled her face into Javert's chest. "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, Emmanuelle."


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Reader: Now, you know the beginning of the tale that we have to tell. Emmanuelle, the illegitimate child of Javert and Henriette nee Du Bois, was left orphaned by her mother. Her stepfather was a cruel man who would beat her in his drunkenness, and that left a mental scar on the girl's memory. Thus we have a poor, half-orphaned girl who is only just finding out who her real father is. Javert, as you may well know, was a stereotypical law enforcer-that is, he had no emotions or feelings. Only his daughter, a reminder of Henriette, could ever make his carefully-schooled control crack.

Sincerely,

Henriette Grantaire-Pontmercy, Jean Grantaire, Etienne Grantaire

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_**Six Years Later….July 7, 1827….Paris, France. Emmanuelle is now 14-years-old.**_

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Emmanuelle pressed five francs into the beggar's dirty, cupped hands. "Here you go, monsieur," she smiled, "God bless you!"

"And you too, mademoiselle!" the beggar said thankfully.

Javert looked on in disbelief as his daughter generously gave away her money. It was an unknown, foreign concept to him. Why, he wondered whenever he saw his daughter doing that, did the criminals and the poor beggars deserve money? What had they done to deserve it? He always shivered at what the people would do if they found out that she was his daughter. No, Javert indeed was not blind to what people thought of him. He knew he was rough, but, he reasoned, it was for the good of upholding the law.

"Papa, are you coming?" Emmanuelle asked, turning to face her father. Javert could not help but notice the way that his dear daughter had grown up. She had been a thin, gangly, and downright tiny child. Now, at fourteen years of age, she was a young lady, far from what she had been when she had first come to him. Now, her brown hair was wavy, her grey eyes were sparkling with mirth and happiness, and her body was shapely. She had only started wearing a corset for two years. Even at her young age, Emmanuelle was starting to attract the wandering eyes of many young men and students from the local university. In fact, Javert had been asked for Emmanuelle's hand in marriage three times since her fourteenth birthday. In typical Javert fashion, he had turned them all down. Javert was not ready-nor was he sure that he would ever be-ready to let Emmanuelle branch off from him and grow up. Honestly, he didn't feel like she was ready.

Sure, she could cook, clean, sew, knit, crochet, play the piano, play the violin, play the harp, play the harpsichord, and could read, but did that make her ready for marriage? In the eyes of society-which was ever changing-yes, this girl was completely ready to be married, have children, and leave her father for her own household. The problem was that Javert, who had always thought himself out of society due to his gypsy heritage, was not ready. Call it attachment, obsession….whatever you may wish, actually, but he was most certainly NOT ready to let her grow up.

Javert walked crisply after his trotting daughter, who held a heavy bundle of new books that she had just bought. Among them was a title that she had been longing to read, a copy of Justinian's Code. Emmanuelle was just as interested in the law as he was, and he was proud of her for that. It was a common practice of theirs to stop at the bookkeeper's shop on the way home from Mass at Notre-Dame Cathedral.

They passed a band of laughing young men who looked to be the same age as Emmanuelle. One was holding a glass bottle that he occasionally raised to his lips. Javert had a sneaking suspicion that he was drunk.

There was a wooden board lying in the street, which, unfortunately, his daughter failed to notice. Emmanuelle's foot struck the corner of the board, and she flailed as she tripped. A very-near-to-a-rain-shower of books flew from her arms. Emmanuelle fell on her stomach, mud from the previous night's rain shower splashing up onto her face and dress.

One of the students, the one with the bottle in his hand, ran over and took her hand, helping her up from the ground.

"Are you okay, mademoiselle?" he asked, gathering her books.

Emmanuelle shook her head, and a few stray wisps of hair from her bun bounced with ever shake of her face. "Yes, monsieur. I believe I'll be fine."

The boy answered, "Oh, mademoiselle, your face and dress!" and offered her his grey tweed coat from England. He also produced a handkerchief and handed it to her. Emmanuelle gratefully took the white linen scrap and wiped the mud off of her face to the best of her ability.

"Merci, monsieur. I owe you much," she thanked gratefully.

"Non, mademoiselle," he replied, shaking it off with a wave of his hand, "it was only a kind deed to do."

"There must be something I can do in return," Emmanuelle insisted as he handed her back her copy of the Justinian Code. "Just please, tell me your name so that I can do something for you."

"My name is Grantaire," the boy replied, "and, mademoiselle, there is no need."

Noting the cover of the Justinian Code, he replied, "You're interested in law? I'm surprised." He turned to one of his friends, who stood on the sidelines of the sidewalk. "Enjolras! Look at this!"

The student apparently named Enjolras-who had a golden cascade of curls falling over his not so broad shoulders-walked over to Grantaire and Emmanuelle. "Yes, winecask?" he asked, the irritation evident in his voice.

Emmanuelle started to say, "That…."

"-Was completely true," Grantaire interjected. "Anyway, look at her book, Enjolras!"

Enjolras stepped back. "No way! You've got a copy of this? Where did you get it? How? What?" He babbled on and on.

"Okay, Monsieur Enjolras, I got it at the Du-Pointe family bookstore," Emmanuelle answered, pointing off to a nicely sized wooden structure off down the street, "right over there. They have good quality on books, and often have very….should I say….hard-to-find books. Beware, before you go in, you're going to have to deal with Madame Du-Pointe, a mean old lady who loves to gossip and is a little snarky and mean. It's worth it, though, when you get the book that you want. Monsieur Grantaire, what kind of things do you like to read?"

Grantaire looked down at his feet. "I don't like to read so much as I like to paint. I'm going to study fine art at the university. Do not get me wrong when I say this, mademoiselle, but I am not a person of thought. Thinking is for people of thought. I am a person of emotions, I guess you could say, and I channel my emotions through to my artwork."

Emmanuelle was struck by the intensity of his words. "My, what a poet you would make, Monsieur Grantaire!" Emmanuelle murmured.

Grantaire laughed, a deep, guttural laugh that Emmanuelle liked. It came from deep in his gut and just rumbled and tossed in a beautiful manner. "No, that is for my friend, Jean Prouvaire. Speaking of names, mademoiselle, I am afraid that I don't know yours. Pray, will you tell?"

"I'm Emmanuelle," she replied with a smile. "I turned fourteen on June 6th."

"We're both fifteen years old," Grantaire replied. "You seem like a really kind mademoiselle. Would you like to maybe take a walk with us sometime?"

"Oh….I don't know. Papa is very strict," Emmanuelle replied, shooting a pointed glance into the crowd. Luckily, they could not tell who she was looking at amidst the dense crowd of people. "He probably would not let me. He wouldn't let me out of our house without the National Guard to protect me."

Javert, who had been speaking to a colleague of his, had not noticed this exchange, but he now turned and saw his daughter talking to the two young boys. Narrowing his eyes, he called, "Emmanuelle! Come here, we must leave!"

Emmanuelle sighed. "Here, Grantaire, take your coat. Thank you so much again."

"No," Grantaire insisted, "just keep it. It's a gift."

"Well, I guess this is au revoir," she muttered, turning to leave. "Perhaps I will see you two again sometime?"

"Perhaps, Emmanuelle," Grantaire smiled. "Wait a second." He grabbed the copy of the Justinian Code and turned from her for a second. "Here you go, Emmanuelle. Au revoir."

As Javert led his daughter home, he did not notice the new tweed jacket that hung on her shoulders. He didn't notice the way she walked with a new step in her stride, nor did he notice the unmistakable blush on her face.

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Emmanuelle sighed loudly and flopped down on her soft bed. She had her copy of Justinian's Code in her hand, and flipped through the pages as she shifted into her white cotton pillow. When she got just so, she opened to the first page. Inside, she noticed that something was inscribed.

_Mademoiselle Emmanuelle,_

_You are quite a lovely soul. Your eyes glitter with the flame of beauty, and your whole being reflects gentility and kindness._

_I hope to see you again soon._

_Your Friend,_

_Grantaire_


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Reader: So, now, there is a twist to this story. At this point, Mademoiselle Emmanuelle has met Grantaire and Enjolras, two of the members of what will become Les Amis de l'ABC. It does seem that Monsieur Grantaire has taken quite a fancy to Emmanuelle Javert…

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_**December 31, 1830…..Pontmercy Mansion**_

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"Papa, come on….it's for Marius. He is one of my best friends," Emmanuelle insisted, tying her hair back with a white ribbon. "It is only one party. One night. Do you really have to come?"

"Yes, I do," Javert replied, stone-faced as ever. "I will go to ensure that you do not engage in improper activities." What he meant to say, or, at least, the subliminal message that he was sending was, _You can't go near men without me there to send them off running with their tails between their legs and their belts around their waists._

Emmanuelle's face scrunched up. "Papa! Marius….I….we….no. Just no. We would never even think of it! Marius is too much like my big brother for me to ever even start to think of the prospect of...that."

"All the same, I think I should attend just in case," Javert settled. And when Javert settled, Emmanuelle knew that the discussion was over.

She once again sighed as she put the single white-feather plume into her hair, pinning it in place with a crystal clip that had once belonged to her mother. Stepping back and glancing at herself in the glass, full-body mirror, she asked, "How do I look, Papa?"

"Perfect," Javert answered. It was true. Her brown hair was curled up in a bun, which she had pinned up on the top of her head. Three white feathers were pinned into the top of the bun, and they were stuck into place by a small crystal barrette. Her grey eyes were shadowed by accents of white eye shadow, and her lips were painted a very faint but lovely shade of pink. Emmanuelle's dress was modest, white, pure, and, even though some may have called it prudish, it was very lovely and complemented her shapely figure nicely. Javert had made quite sure that the neckline was high enough so that her sizeable cleavage was not visible. He most certainly did NOT need a young man seeing her bosom and trying something that would get his neck wrung in Javert's leather-gloved hands. "Just like your mother….."

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"Emmanuelle! You came!" Marius smiled as he came up to stand next to Emmanuelle. "I didn't think you would!"

Emmanuelle grinned as well, the light of the great crystal chandelier reflecting off of her steely eyes and hairpin. "You knew I would, Marius. You're one of my best friends in the whole world."

Marius laughed. He knew it was true. After Emmanuelle's father, Javert, had come on business with Monsieur Gillenormand, Marius' grandfather, and brought Emmanuelle, they had been closer than two fleurs-de-lis flowers. They had constantly been playing together, learning together, growing together, and, when Marius had gone to go to the University recently, Emmanuelle had supported him even though she yearned to be able to smell the crispness of the schoolroom books, and to run her hands over the stone columns of University Hall. "Come, you must meet my friends!" he exclaimed, grabbing her hand and dragging her to a table in the corner. Around it were gathered nine young men, most of whom were grasping a crystal chalice filled with-oh, who would guess?-alcohol. New Year's Eve was always the night of the drunkards, and this year appeared as if it would be no different.

"Emmanuelle, meet my friends!" Marius cried with a sweeping, circular gesture to the men around the table. "This is Bahorel, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras…."

"We've met," Emmanuelle interjected. "Nice to see you again, monsieur." Enjolras offered a quaint nod.

"-Like I was saying….there's also Feuilly, Jean Prouvaire….we call him Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire," Marius introduced.

_Grantaire._

He was just as Juliet remembered: messy and drunk, but still, in a strange, convoluted way, enchanting and mysterious. "Monsieur," she murmured, curtsying politely.

The man who was-according to Marius' testimony-Courfeyrac slid over to Emmanuelle's side, slithering a hand around her slender waist. "Mademoiselle," he grinned cheekily and in a distinct mixture of an Irish, French, and Cockney accents, "would you like to….oh, I don't know….visit the upstairs with me?" His breath smelled of a mixture of booze and whiskey, flushing unpleasantly into her face and making her cringe. Obviously, he was drunk….and very, very, VERY drunk at that point of the nighttime.

Emmanuelle set a serious face. "You should know beforehand….I do not swallow."

The group of men, all except for Enjolras and Marius, burst into a roar of laughter and mirth. Grantraire fell over the table and spilled his drink on Bossuet, who groaned and shrieked, "I told you I was unlucky! I did, I did, I did!" and, as a result, the laughter's fervor only increased to a greater level of intensity. She withdrew a clean linen handkerchief and handed it to Bossuet, who dabbed it eagerly at his shirt.  
"There's promise for this one yet," Grantaire announced, raising his bottle to her in a toast. "There is, I can tell!"

"Emmanuelle?" a voice asked behind her, tapping her shoulder gently. She turned around and came face-to-face with Inspector Javert.

"Yes?" she asked. "Is everything alright?"

Javert turned as red as the wine that was in Grantaire's bottle, and he stammered and searched in his mind for a response. "Um….I….I….Wantedyoutomeetmycolleaguebecauseheisag oodman… hissonisasinglebachelorandIwasthinkingofyoutwocour tingsomedayisn'tthatanicethought? SoIthinkitwouldbeagoodideaifyouwouldcomewithmelike rightnowsolet'sgoplease," he rushed, running his words together as he dragged his daughter off by the dress sleeve. Emmanuelle shot a helpless glance back at her newfound friends as she was dragged into what she knew was an excuse to keep her away from men. Not like he could…she was going to spend the night at Marius' grandfather's house. She was not a young lady anymore, and she hadn't been for a few years.

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Emmanuelle dragged the heavy metal telescope across the rose garden lawn as she held the knee of her white dressing gown in the other hand. It was not an easy task, to say the least. She was sweating and panting from the effort. It would be worth it, though: that night, Mars was visible in the night sky, which was a rare occurrence and would most likely, to the best of her knowledge, not happen again in her lifetime.

Setting up her old copper telescope was easy, for she had done it with her father many times in the past. The stand-support prongs were a little old and rusty, but they still served their purpose. Looking through the glass of the telescope, she moved it around as needed to try and catch even the slightest glimpse of the red planet among the twinkling stars of the night sky.

"There it is!" Emmanuelle cried in victory as she spotted the red spot in the dark sky near Polaris.

"What's there?" a man's voice asked behind her. She turned around quickly and smacked her face into Grantaire's own face. Emmanuelle fell back due to the effects of the force of the blow. The ground was not a friendly companion at the moment.

"Sorry, Mademoiselle Emmanuelle, I didn't mean to frighten you," Grantaire apologized as he helped her up and brushed some of the dirt from the back of her dress. His hand dared to venture to the dirt that was situated lower, but she smacked his hand away.

"North of the border, Monsieur Grantaire," she warned playfully, "or I should have to call the Inspector on you. I know him personally."

"You do, do you?" he asked, catching on to the game.

"More than you would ever know," Emmanuelle replied, dropping her voice to barely above a whisper. Now, Grantaire could realize that it was a sensitive topic and decided to change the subject.

Grantaire asked, "So, Elle…."

"Elle?"

"Emmanuelle is too frilly for you."

"Why, thank you…."

"Anyway, Elle, what were you doing just a moment ago?" he asked.

Emmanuelle sighed and plopped herself onto the blanket that she had brought, gesturing for Grantaire to take a seat next to her. "I've always loved astronomy more than anything. Mars was in the sky tonight," she answered truthfully.

His face softened. "Astronomy?'

She blushed, her cheeks dusting a light pink. "Yes. Papa always liked it, and I suppose that it was a hereditary trait. This was his telescope."

"Your father must be an interesting man," Grantaire mused.

"He is," Emmanuelle agreed. "Always. More than anybody could ever understand, really."

"Speaking of your family," Grantaire continued, "do you have any siblings?"

Emmanuelle's eyes seemed to drift off into another world as she stared at Polaris' position in the sky. "Yes….I had a twin brother."

"Had?" Grantaire was confused.

"I'm a bastard child. So was my twin brother. Our mother had an affair with my Papa before she was married. She got pregnant and was immediately forced into a marriage, and, about ten or nine years ago, I was sent to live with my Papa after her death. I don't know where my brother is," she explained. Then, she yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. "I'm getting tired."

"Me too," Grantaire agreed. "I'm tired…."

Emmanuelle laid back upon the blanket and curled up next to Grantaire. "I'm cold."

"I will keep you warm," Grantaire confirmed. "I will, I promise. Forever."


	4. Chapter 4

**WARNING! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS BRIEF VIOLENCE. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.**

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**Hey there! I just want to let you know that on May 3rd, 4th, 10th, and 11th at the Franciscan Center in Toledo, OH, St. Francis De Sales High School is going to be performing _Les_ Miserables**! **I can't wait to go see it, even though it is kind of far. Here's the info for it. Here's the link to the school website for more information.**

_**Tickets are available at St. Francis by stopping by or calling 419-531-1618 daily until 4p.m. **_

_**Adults -$15, Students - $10 and Sr. Citizens**_** $12.**

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Emmanuelle's sleep-induced haze started to lift as the sun filtered through her eyelids. She yawned, stretching her arms, and started to sit up. Why was the bed so hard? Where was her blanket? And, perhaps most importantly, where was her dressing gown and why was somebody next to her?

She peered at the person who happened to be next to her and screamed mentally. It was Grantaire, who had her white, silk night gown grasped in his hands. She was practically naked without it, so she snatched it back quickly and without hesitation. The sudden loss of fabric in his hand made Grantaire shoot up immediately. "Wha…"

"What the hell, Grantaire?" Emmanuelle asked, pushing him back to the ground.

Grantaire rubbed his eyes with the neck of his bottle, something that Joly surely would have reprimanded him for if he were there. "What did I do? Damn, I have a headache…"

A pang of white-hot fear flooded through Emmanuelle's veins. "What did we do?" she asked, closing her eyes and hoping that it wasn't what she thought. "Oh my God, my Papa's going to murder me when he finds out…."

"He'll have nothing on you," Grantaire assured. "If that's what you think that we did, well, no, we didn't." When he saw the look that Emmanuelle made and the not-so-discreet gesture to her removed nightgown, he added, "You got hot. By the way, your breasts are nice."

She stared at him. "What the…..Grantaire, why were you even…"

Emmanuelle was cut off by a pair of lips crashing into her own. With a start, she realized that Grantaire was kissing her. Grantaire. Was. Kissing. Her. It was an unimaginable thought, and yet, here it was, happening. His lips were chapped and slightly calloused, and he tasted of wine and beer, but, combined, it was an intoxicating scent that took her to the edge of insanity. She couldn't help but kiss back, even though it really should have repelled her immensely, that's how nice it was. She'd never been kissed, and, well, to be frank, it was nice. Her Papa was going to kill her, she thought, oh, to hell with it. It wasn't his concern….but, merde, if he caught her now…..to hell with it. She would just have this moment to hold on to.

"GRANTAIRE, WHAT THE HELL?!" a voice shrieked at the pair. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HER?"

The pair broke apart, and Grantaire reluctantly rolled off of Emmanuelle, who was not faring much better. Her face was flushed with excitement, and her lips were sore and swollen from the heavy kissing.

"WE'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU ALL NIGHT, THE INSPECTOR WAS SO WORRIED…HE IS GOING TO KILL YOU WHEN HE FINDS OUT THAT YOU SLEPT WITH HIS DAUGHTER!" Marius fretted. Grantaire looked confused. The Inspector's daughter? She was way too nice to be the spawn of the Inspector.

Emmanuelle, the only one able to communicate, cautioned, "Marius, we didn't sleep together. I was looking at the stars, and he came, and….well, we just got too tired to walk back to your house. Nothing more, I assure you."

It seemed to reassure Marius a little bit, but, still, this was Marius. "Then what were you just doing?" Oh, Marius. Poor Marius. Poor virgin Marius. Poor never-been-kissed-by-a-girl-not-even-his-own-mothe r Marius.

Emmanuelle sighed. "Oh, Marius, how blind are you?" This earned a snort and a pat of approval from Grantaire. "We kissed."

Marius blushed. "Oh. That's nice."

"It was," Grantaire chimed in. Just like Grantaire to chime in, Marius and Emmanuelle thought simultaneously.

"Since there's no way to ameliorate this situation that Marius has made EXTREMELY impossible….Grantaire wasn't that much of a help, either," Emmanuelle spoke out, rolling her eyes, "let's just go back to the house. After all, it cannot be THAT big of a deal….."

()()()()()()()()()()()()

It turned out in the long run that Emmanuelle was severely incorrect about that.

How Inspector Javert had started and howled when his daughter had come back to the Pontmercy Mansion! "Young lady!" this and "Young lady!" that. It was all that could be heard echoing through the halls of the house.

"Papa," she had replied calmly, "I was just looking at the stars. Fear not!"

He had gripped the side of his wooden desk tightly, grimacing as a few splinters were shoved into the skin of his calloused hands. Oh well. Emmanuelle could take care of it later like she always did, but now, there were more pressing matters at hand. "No, I'm talking about the boy."

"Grantaire?" Emmanuelle asked, raising an eyebrow in questioning form.

Javert closed his eyes even more than they already were, trying to block the image of what must have occurred out of his head. "Yes. Grantaire."

"What's wrong, Papa? What worries you so?" Emmanuelle questioned.

"What did you do with him? Why were you together, outside? Tell me that," Javert demanded obstinately.

Emmanuelle responded innocently, "We were looking at the stars, nothing more, I swear to you!"

"Why don't I believe you?" Javert asked, chuckling softly to himself, his navy-blue-jacket-covered back turned to his only daughter. "Why?"

"Because you're so vexing and cannot believe your own child," Emmanuelle said out loud. As soon as the words had left her mouth, she instantly regretted them. Oh, she had never called her Papa such a thing! Now, she felt sore sorry.

Javert turned, his face livid with rage. Behind his eyes, it almost seemed as if a fire was kindled, ready, and daring to burst forth in a slew of instantaneous rage. "How dare you! I am your father! You have no right!"

"And what of you, to keep me from the world?" Emmanuelle countered, rising up from her seat on her chair. "How do you think I feel, being all cooped up and locked away in the house like a china doll that can be so easily broken, unable to communicate with the outside world? How do you think that I feel about wanting to be loved and be held by somebody that is not my father? Would you have done this to my mother? Hm, Monsieur L'Inspector?"

She felt a flash and sting of pain as her father backhanded her across the face. "Don't you dare to ever mention that woman in this house!" Javert hissed, rubbing his hand.

"Mother wouldn't allow this! Mother would have yelled at you! Mother would be so mad at you that she would just leave! She would die! Maybe it's your fault that she died in the first place!" Emmanuelle continued despite the pain in her cheek that was soon refreshed by a new slap across her cheekbones. Now, she could vaguely taste blood in her mouth. "You let her get married to somebody that only wanted her for her body! You killed her!"

Javert had had enough. "Get out," he hissed, pointing towards the door, "and do not come back. Ever."

The girl who stood before him glared her father in the eye, grabbed a woolen, crotched blanket that she wrapped about her shoulders, and left the Inspector's home in a whirlwind of snow, silent tears running down her face all the way.


	5. Chapter 5

_**I'm so sorry, readers! It's been way too long since I've last updated this, but I lost my muse for it. But, it's back, and here you go. You do need a peace offering….here, take Enjolras!**_

_**ENJOLRAS: WAIT, WHAT?!**_

_**Oh, also, there's some mild swearing in this chapter. But no biggie.**_

* * *

_Dear Readers: Poor Emmanuelle! The dear mademoiselle has been thrown from the only good home that she's ever had, and now she has nowhere to go, except for maybe one place-or man, that is-actually, a group of men….._

_-_Henriette Grantaire-Pontmercy, Jean Grantaire, Etienne Grantaire

* * *

Emmanuelle ran down the streets of Paris, not caring where she went, not caring which prissy old bourgeois lady gave her a gasp and wave of their prim, lacy fans at her unladylike, disheveled state. Too bad for them, she would think if she was in such a state to think straight thoughts. All she really wanted was to get as far away from her father-and the horrible words that they had exchanged-as was immediately possible. The heated moments that had passed between them kept replaying themselves over and over again in her head, despite her frenzied efforts to make them stop by banging her hands against her head. She was quite the sight, in fact, many passersby thought that the (not-so-little) Javert girl had finally gone off her rocker just like her father had.

She ran down an alley and sat down, pulling her legs up closer to her and burying her face in the crack between her knees. After a while, and after she was sure that she could not cry anymore than she already had, Emmanuelle lifted her head and wiped away the residue of her crying fit with an old handkerchief that had once belonged to her mother. It only served as a reminder of what she had accused him of. "I can't believe I said that to him. I told him that he killed her. It's not true, I know it isn't. I did not mean to say it! Now I cannot even take it back. I still cannot believe that he abandoned me to the streets. He hates me. I know he does, I just know it." In her head, it still sounded like the complaint of a child who had not gotten their own way; a foolish attempt to supersede the hateful thoughts that were flowing through her head the way Grantaire's liquor flowed down his gorgeous throat….no! Emmanuelle blushed at the scandal of it all.

Oh, how foolish she was! If she had never met Grantaire-was that even his first name?-in the marketplace, if he hadn't picked up her book (which she still had and treasured), if he hadn't been at Marius' party, if he hadn't come out in the garden, if he hadn't fallen asleep next to her, if he'd done the responsible thing and taken her inside when she fell asleep, if, if, if! She only had herself to blame, and not Grantaire, who she was using as a scapegoat.

If only she had not acted scandalously and wantonly with the man, then she would be fine. Nothing bad would have happened, and she would still be in a nice, warm home with her father, sitting by the fire as they sipped their tea. Emmanuelle hardly even knew Grantaire, and yet, she loved him. It was true, and there was no denying it, even now as she crouched in the dark recesses of a dank alley.

Suddenly, Emmanuelle got the feeling that she was not alone, and the hairs on her forearms stood up-not from the cold of the falling snow, but from primal instinct. She wrapped her long fingers around the barrel of the small pistol that she kept hidden in her shoe. The miniscule gun would not be enough to kill whoever was there, but, if the person aimed to harm her, it would be enough to stop them and to give her time to go and get help. "Who….who's there?" she asked timidly, trying to be as brave as possible. "Show yourself."

"Emmanuelle?" a familiar-sounding voice asked. "Is that you?"

She lifted her head and loosened her grip on the pistol when she saw who it was. "En…..Enjolras?"

Indeed it was, as the sunshiny, untamed curls bounced with every swift movement closer to her as he advanced down the alley to stand by her side. "I heard about what happened with Grantaire." He reached down, offering her his arm, which was clothed by the same red coat that he had worn the first day she met him. "Here, get up." Now standing, Emmanuelle brushed off the back of her dress.

"Oh, you are shivering….here, take my coat," he offered, shrugging the scarlet fabric off of his body and helping her to put it on. "And don't say anything. It was something nice that I did for you, even though I hardly know you."

"Alright then," Emmanuelle sighed sarcastically. Then, in a more serious tone, "were….were you looking for me or something?"

Enjolras rubbed the back of his head with his hand. "Yes, I suppose," he said, sounding a little embarrassed. "But only because when we heard about what happened, we figured since your father kicked you out, that we should look for you and calm you down."

Emmanuelle asked suspiciously, "How did you know that my father threw me out? And who is 'we?'"

"Grantaire told us about who your father was, and you know Marius….he can't keep his mouth shut," Enjolras admitted, laughing casually as they exited the alley. "'We' includes myself, Grantaire, Marius, and our friends that you met at the New Year's Eve ball. Also, Mademoiselle Emmanuelle, where will you go now?"

She sighed. "Honestly, I have not the slightest idea. The alleys are out of the question, so I guess that I will have to go and ask one of my friends if I can stay there for a while. My father…..he told me to never come back, so I guess that I shall not return there."

"I may not know much about women, but I do not find it polite to just let them sleep in dark alleys," Enjolras replied. "Come with me, and let us go to the Café Musain, where my friends and I gather. Madame Huchelop owns the establishment, and I am certain that she would let you stay with her."

Emmanuelle frowned. "If you insist, Monsieur Enjolras."

Most of the journey to the café was spent in silence, just them walking side by side….he, without a coat, and she, with the red of Enjolras' coat clashing with her dress. "You know, Grantaire seems to have taken quite the fancy to you, Mademoiselle Emmanuelle."

"I suppose he has," she admitted, "though 'tis a shame that we have only met twice before."

"It has only been a day, and you can tell that he has changed...for the better, I may add," Enjolras remarked. "Ah, here we are."

Le Café Musain was of a decent size; not too small, and not too large. To Emmanuelle's eyes, it was a little bit smaller than the house that she used to share with her father. The wooden boards that made up the sides were old and coated with propaganda and graffiti from the French Revolution and the rise of Napoleon. Fliers, some old, some new, and some so blurred from rain and snow that they were unreadable, were nailed onto the front here and there.

Enjolras and Emmanuelle ascended the rickety old staircase, Enjolras continuing, and Emmanuelle freezing-but only because all eyes in the room were on her. Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre, Joly, Marius, and now Enjolras, were at the table in the epitome of the room, and Bahorel, Feuilly, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac were all in one corner, laughing and roaring over their romantic escapades-at least, they had until Emmanuelle stepped in the room.

"I found her,"Enjolras said, "you were all right. She did get thrown out because of what happened at the New Year's ball."

Silence, broken by Combeferre, who peered at her over his pince-nez glasses. "Is the mademoiselle alright?"

"Yes, I am fine, you could say," Emmanuelle murmured. "Cold, and upset, but fine."

"Do you have pneumonia?" Joly asked nervously, fidgeting in his seat and grabbing onto Jean Prouvaire's arm. "Oh, Jean, I do not want to get pneumonia! I'm probably infected already!"

"Monsieur Joly," Emmanuelle soothed gently, "If I had been infected, the effects would not have set in yet, as I was only outside for about an hour. You would not be infected so quickly...goodness, Monsieur, I'm not some disease-ridden beast."

The door banged open, and in rushed a surprisingly sober Grantaire. "Sorry I'm late, I was just looking for...Emmanuelle? What are you doing here?"

"Monsieur Enjolras found me after I was...thrown out," she swallowed uncomfortably, looking down at the ground. "Papa..."

Grantaire gathered his love into his arms, embracing her as she cried, the memory of what had happened only hours earlier refreshing itself in her memory. "Sh, mon cher," he whispered into her hair as he stroked her arm. "It will be alright. You can stay with me."

A collective gasped erupted from all of the men in the room. "That would be improper, Grantaire! What would people say...the thought of a man and woman living together, and outside of marriage! It would be a scandal," Emmanuelle hissed the last part, blushing at both the implication of her words and the thought of her writhing in ecstasy under Grantaire's heaving body. Such impropriety! Shame, she scolded herself internally.

"I...I don't if this is a good idea, Grantaire," Emmanuelle bit her lip, Grantaire adding to the list of reasons why he loved her and thought that she was beautiful.

Enjolras piped up, "I find it acceptable. It would be better with Grantaire, as we can trust him and know that he would not ever harm her. She will be safe with him." And, everybody automatically agreed. As he was the leader of their little group, his word was pretty much law amongst them.

"Then 'tis settled," Emmanuelle conceded. "I will stay with you."


End file.
